Canto CCI

Two images made the virtual rounds this week;
the young and handsome viral video star,
naked, pounding his fists on the sidewalk;

the stricken footballer, laid on the grass,
surrounded by men in yellow jackets,
the stadium hushed, his fellow footballers

stripped of their passion and hubris.
A few days back, in the hospital corridor,
I saw the stricken roll by on stretchers,

unconscious and unresponsive but for
the slight and shallow passage of their breath.
I thought of all those steel objects of war

displayed in the Museum of Mass Death
(its proper name’s an insult to billions)
and whispered to myself that small word, “health.”

Our lives are short as candles and as thin
as the smoke that they puff out when extinguished.
The mind is just three pounds of squidgy brain.

There never was a self to begin with.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Mar 19, 2012 @ 00:06:54

    Thoughts on mortality? This poet must be getting old, the young feel that they will live forever.
    I need to go away and consider the final couplet. I have trouble imagining this.


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